


if you touch me, i'll paint antifreeze

by 10aliens



Series: Industrialized Violence [3]
Category: Fallen Hero Series - Malin Rydén
Genre: M/M, im gunna have so much fun coming back to this and re-reading this gay shit i wrote
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-10 19:20:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18666745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/10aliens/pseuds/10aliens
Summary: Tomorrow morning, Chen will wear a different pair of hands, ones that didn't touch, and Park will wear so much exhaustion in his gait that no one will ever want to touch.





	if you touch me, i'll paint antifreeze

**Author's Note:**

> wei chen sir if ur out there PLEASE give me a call

One long body is shadowed out from the charred-grey smog. The rain falls through the strands of his uneven hair. Both his hands and his teeth chatter.   
  
The teeth chatter from the chill of the rain. The hands chatter like old bones; like a seance of a vengeful ghost. They chatter because he is desperate, because he is angry, because he wants to capture every single drop of rain and swirl it in a bucket full of arsenic and dump it into his own bathtub. (You made your grave. Now, sink into it.)

 

He paws for the burner phone, plucks it out of his pockets and thinks about snapping it in half and crushing it under his foot, just to take something created by man and turn it to earth.

 

Instead, he dials in a phone number he knows there is suspicion in having.

 

The phone keyboard grows slick with fat rain drops, and his eyes get blinded from the outpouring. Nevertheless, he still types.

 

 **Text Message To** : **XXX-XXXX**

 

_it’s me. if the idiot tries to talk to me one more time I think I’ll hurt him badly. does spoon need a walk?_

 

It’s me. As if anyone else needs an introduction when they have five different hidden meanings in those three sentences alone.

 

An old part of him is pleased with the contextualized text. Good. It’s good when there’s inside secrets between two people. It’s what a good story needs.

 

The rain grows louder, and a rumble of thunder is heard from the horizon, where the beaches are. It makes him angrier. Of course, of course. The bastard (the traitor, _the fucking traitor)_ would never leave him alone without having the last word. Fuck the sky.

 

**Text Message From: XXX-XXXX**

 

_it’s raining out, spoon would get sick. you can say hi indoors. tell me he left and you’re not with him._

 

**Text Message To: XXX-XXXX**

 

_don’t be stupid, of course I left. i’m not bringing peanut butter._

 

**Text Message From: XXX-XXXX**

 

_texting is difficult. i’d prefer if you called._

 

**Text Message To: XXX-XXXX**

 

_you and me both, you fucking asshole._

 

At that, the long body with a soaked sweater and pants sticking to the shape of his legs uses one unoccupied hand to snap the phone in half. He hobbles over to a trash can next to a dripping park bench, and tosses the phone into it.

 

There’s no need for traces. There’s no need for giving them reasons to find him. He needed to break something, anyway, let it be their chance of finding out where he is instead of...well.

 

He stares at the drenched park bench, which is splintered by old age and over-usage. One too many people feeding pigeons and sleeping overnight on. Not enough money pouring in into the reconstruction of park benches to fix it.

 

He can’t stop himself from thinking of ripping out the iron arm rests from the old wood, and bringing it down on Ortega. It would be like watching pottery crumble under a heavy hand. He’d probably be in pain. He wouldn’t stop it from happening. He’d hit his head on the ground. The metal would cause a dent, one you can’t fix with hot water.

 

The convulsing body of Charge found in a park with rain so heavy it’ll cause a landslide in the softball field.

 

Park wouldn’t say a single word. He wouldn’t. That’s what they taught him: _Don’t speak ill of the dead._

 

But if he would have, he’d would have said: _I told you I’d make you regret it._

 

But. No one would do such a terrible thing. It’s disgusting, even to think about. No One.   
  
Nausea forms up his windpipe.

 

He clears his throat, and it sounds as wet as his face does, as the socks in his damp shoes do.

 

The cane he’s leaning on is slick with water as well, but Park holds it right and dependent enough to not let it fall, so he can’t trip.  
  
+++   
  
One long body, muted under the crowding storm-wind. The thunder rumbles reedy and quiet, still farther to where the beaches are, refusing to creep any closer to the city.

 

It smells of sewer water when it rains in Los Diablos. Sewer water, wet ash, tar-guck and oil spills.

 

There’s mud and more on his shoes as he knocks on the door. His knuckles ache from it, because they’re bruised and bandaged and they’ll definitely bleed again. His knees ache, from the walking. His ankle is killing him, and he lifts it up in hope that it can _stop_ , _already_.

 

The door is nondescript on this floor. You wouldn’t be able to tell that it belongs to the Marshall from how pale it is, with only a doormat and small peephole a few inches under his eyes. There’s no mail in the slot, no dog-door. Just a single 718 to adorn it in plastic gold.

 

The cement floor is soiled under his feet, and the yellow-white lights hanging up on the sides make his eyes hurt.

 

There’s barking heard from behind the door, coming closer and closer till scratching is heard on the other side. He’ll fall, probably. Slam the back of his head on the back of the door as Spoon is shoving his wet nose on Park’s face. Lose whatever footing he has left and sludge down to the floor, conquered by a long-limbed dog.

 

There’s a muffled ‘ _down, spoon. down!’_ behind  as well, as low as the thunder but not nearly so unwelcome, and the doorknob jingles open the door and Chen is standing there, part-way visible, the modded glow of his shoulder leaking out to look garish under the muteness of the rain, the moth-eaten lights on top of them.

 

His eyes are red. He must have been sleeping. His mouth is set grimly, but his neck isn’t tense, and he’s wearing a black t-shirt and grey sweatpants. Barefoot. He’s postured like old clothes from a dryer machine.

 

Spoon whines from between Chen’s legs, and Chen spits something too fast in Cantonese under his breath, in answer.

 

Then, he looks straight at Park.

 

“You’re soaking.” He states, unimpressed.

 

Park turns into Jie-Sun, who sniffs.

 

“Get in, before Spoon escapes,” Chen says, before turning around and pushing the dog back gently with his knee, and after he swings the door open wider. “And before you catch a fever.”

 

When he enters, he toes off his rain-brimmed shoes, hesitates before deciding against taking off his socks.

 

Instead, Jie-Sun trails footprint puddles all over Chen’s floors, and hates how his sweater presses down on his torso with the heaviness of all the water it carries.

 

Chen manages to lead a yipping Spoon back to the kitchen, and twists his head to watch Jie-Sun pick at the sweater.

 

“I have some of your clothes,” He says, watching sleepy-eyed, and turns into Wei. “They’re dry; clean. If you want, change in the bedroom.”

 

Jie-Sun nods, and Wei almost smiles.

 

“And after,” He says, focused now on giving Spoon a belly rub with one of his feet, as careful as anything that can be trusted with not pulping the ground it walks on,  “You can tell me what happened.”

 

He has his civilian hands on. The cracks of technology slice through the skin grafts on his forearms and biceps enough to make a jarring contrast.

 

His voice isn’t low as thunder anymore. It’s as low as the radio playing in the kitchen as Jie-Sun limps his way to the bedroom. It’s as warm as the heating in the bedroom, where the bedsheets are rumpled and the lights are dimmed; signs that Wei had been sleeping, though not very deeply.

 

Jie-Sun’s pile of clothes are folded neatly in a corner in the closet, and he avoids the mirror as he peels off every layer he’s armored himself with.

 

It’s only a thin long-sleeved shirt, barely covering the scars on his neck, just low enough to show a hint of collar. The pants are sweatpants, plain and soft. The socks are thin, too.

 

It’s only one layer. (One layer.)

 

He’ll get used to it. He’s getting used to it. Don’t look in the mirror. Don’t look. Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look don’t look dontlookisweartogodifyoufuckinglookillmakeyouswallowthemirrorshardsand-

 

“Park?” A preliminary check, now in the distance of the living room.

 

It takes the wind-grossness away from the cotton of the clothes, and he picks up his cane from where he tilted it to the wall. Next to the mirror.

 

(He doesn’t look.)

 

Jie-sun knocks on the wall three times for an affirmative. His head is spinning. His eyes sting, and his neck feels stiff.

 

He walks out of the bedroom, the cane clacking on the hardwood of the hallway and down to the living room. He would’ve been completely silent if it wasn’t for the clacking, a resentful part of him mutters.

 

Sometimes I need to shut up, a practical side of him replies.

 

Wei’s nearly dozing off on the couch, already, but one eye creaks open when Jie-Sun comes in. He shifts so there’s space of the two of them on the couch, and Jie-Sun looks around to the kitchen to see Spoon, now gnawing on a chew toy.

 

The couch cushions sink when he sits down. His ankle screeches in relief from the pressure of walking on it, and Jie-Sun lets the cane clatter to the floor to commemorate. Spoon only flicks a floppy ear in response to the sound, and growls instead into the chew toy.

 

Wei’s eyes are closed again, and he breathes deeply for a few seconds, before opening them and looking straight at Jie-Sun. He’s sleep-tinged, pliable and silent. His arms are crossed against his chest, like how they cross when he’s waiting for something.

 

“So.” He says.

 

“I went to fucking therapy again.” Jie-Sun signs. His movements are fluttered, and his teeth grit. Wei creases his eyebrows for a few seconds, trying to parse it out despite the speed of the words. That, he simply letters, and Wei nods, “Asshole tried to talk.”

 

“Therapy does makes things worse, occasionally,” Wei mumbles. “And Ortega tends to forget that it doesn’t help everyone.”

 

“Doctor asked too much.”

 

“What did she want to know?”

 

He stilts, hands suddenly on his lap.

 

Then, “I'd make a pretty woman, yeah?"

 

Wei looks more awake now. His nod gets more cautious, and the way his gaze follows Jie-Sun’s signing is more focused than before.

 

It does nothing to convince the latter that this is a good idea.

 

Sometimes I need to shut the fuck up, a practical part of him says.

 

  But they chipped away my onion-skin paint and retouched, retouched, retouched! I was renewed! This body is the same as the old one, just as broken! It’s just that they used different floorboards; that they used dogwood instead of oak!  
  


A selfish part of him thinks about Ortega asking him if he’s alright afterwards and says: It would have taken me nine years to have a layer of skin that he hadn’t touched. That he never thought of touching. He wanted to touch before, and that was touch enough.   
  
  


The desperate, honest part of him says: It would have taken me nine years. They reskinned me in five, and for two years I tried to make it ugly enough that it wouldn’t have been the exact copy.

 

Wei watches as sharp as the tinfoil you cut your finger on. His thoughts are forming, and Jie-Sun’s too tired, too on edge to try to pick out something from the conceptions.

 

Then, Wei pushes himself off of the couch arm and leans forward, one hand brushing against Jie-Sun’s on the cushion spot that’s between them.

 

An image of Jie-Sun is formed in Wei’s thoughts. It makes his throat thick, so Jie-Sun swallows down the dryness and doesn’t look away.

 

“Jie,” Wei murmurs, “We’re both always being rebuilt.”

 

“Yeah. I know,” He answers. It’s harder with one hand.

**Author's Note:**

> also jie-sun park u too. like i know ur rude as all shit but holy mother of g-d. ur still hot. call me


End file.
